


The Night Ron Weasley Lost His Mind

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry's miserable. It's Ron's job to cheer him up, right?





	The Night Ron Weasley Lost His Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: To my beta, DeadlyNightshade: Thanks, thanks, thanks, thanks again!   


* * *

It was maddening.  
  
All he did was mope around the flat. That is, when he would leave his room and come into the world of the waking. Mostly Harry Potter would sit on his arse in his sparsely furnished room, usually staring blankly into the dark, occasionally putting on that Muggle telly he had and pretending to watch. I know he was pretending because I know every single look Harry has. He has his "I'm-bullshitting-every-word-of-this" look which was mostly reserved for Potions class, his "I'm-having-you-on-when-are-you-going-to-catch-on-you-git?" look which was mostly reserved for me, along with his "I'm-the-savior-of-the-wizarding-world-and-you-should-probably-listen-to-me" look, along with assorted others. All of which I could identify. None of which he has used in awhile. Mostly now he had on his "I'm-thinking-about-every-bad-thing-I've-ever-done-and-I'm-trying-to-fool-my-best-mate" look. He would stare at the flashing screen with that faraway look in his eyes, and every once in awhile I'd take pity on him. I'd try to play along and say "Good program, Harry?" and he'd just look at me with those empty eyes and nod blankly.  
  
I couldn't take it. This had been going on for over for six months, and of course The Boy Who Inherited a Shitload of Money didn't have to work, but me being Ron Weasley, The Boy Who Lived in His Brother's Trousers For Seventeen Years of His Life had to actually do the Nine-to-Five thing. So I worked at the Ministry. While Harry sat on his million galleon assets at home and wasted away.  
  
So after Lord Voldything was conquered by the aforementioned Boy Who Lived to Mope, he and I took about a month off, basically living out of the Burrow and trying to find a flat in Muggle London. He could afford anywhere of course, but I insisted I pay my share. During that small window of time, he still had a little light in his eyes. I think he might have still been pumped on some kind of adrenaline and not really feeling the weight of what he'd just done. Harry was never a killer. But he did what he had to do. So we found this reasonably priced apartment and moved in. One night shortly after we moved in, we both got completely pissed at a small bar near our building and I ended up dragging a sobbing Harry home. Apparently, all it took was a few shots and suddenly he was blathering on about how guilty he felt everyday and how the war completely changed him and how he hated who he'd become and how he sometimes wished he'd just died in battle.  
  
I was stricken. This was my best friend in the world, and he was talking about not wanting to live anymore. I brought him home, splashed some water on his face and attempted to whip up a hangover potion, even though I had seven years of not paying attention in Potions under my belt. He stopped crying; his face looked less ashen in any event. I took off his ridiculously tight green button down and his favourite pair of ripped jeans which I have never recalled washing (yes, I am the resident house-elf and do the washing) and I put him into his bed. I performed some cooling charms on his room and transfigured a small fan out of an old sock, as he always keeps his room airless with an average temperature of ninety-five degrees, and stroked his forehead until he fell asleep, clutching my hand.  
  
Since that night, he's done a complete turnaround. He's just not who he ever was. He's sullen, silent and basically dirty. If I didn't remind him to shower and shave every few days he might have suffocated himself with his stench and/or rapidly growing facial hair. So I sit and watch him mope. I try to talk to him, try to get some life into his eyes, try to get him to EAT, or read, or watch the telly for real, or respond or FEEL. But he's a rock. So I sigh, leave breakfast out for him in the morning that I know will only go cold, or half-eaten by the time I come home, and head off to my Nine-to-Five, hoping that by the time I get home from work, I'll have my best mate back.  
  
So went six months of this. Six months, two weeks, and a day to be exact. Not that I'm counting. But that night deserved to be documented. Because it's the night I lost my mind.  
  
Mr. Personality was being his usual self, dragging himself around in a week old shirt, five o'clock shadow giving way dangerously to a full beard, barefoot and thinner than he'd ever been. And I was sitting with my feet propped up on the coffee table in a clean pair of pajama pants and nothing else, watching the telly. It was hot that night, hotter than sin, and all I was grateful for was that Harry had left his bedroom because he might have been stifled by the heat.  
  
So I watched him walk from room to room, looking in cabinets half-heartedly, and surprisingly, sink down into the cushions next to me. I didn't register my shock because anything resembling emotion would send him running into next week. So I just sat, shifting slightly, eventually daring to take a look at his face.  
  
He was sunken. That's the only world I had for it. His cheeks were hideously hollow; his hair hung into his eyes, and his skin was ghostly pale, with an almost grayish tinge from lack of sun exposure. His collarbones jutted out from the neckline of his T-shirt, his pale shoulder peeking out from the stretched out collar, as well. I felt a sorrow welling up inside of me as I watched him stare blankly at the wall in front of him. This was my best mate. If I couldn't cheer him up, give him a reason for living, give him a reason to BATHE, well, who bloody well could?  
  
So I guess that's why I thought it appropriate to grab him by the front of his stained shirt and bring his chapped, full lips to my own.  
  
Seems like the obvious thing to do right?  
  
Well, not to either of us. I think I was as shocked as he was when my tongue intruded into his mouth, tasting hunger and sleep and dirt and _Harry_ though neither of us was as shocked as when he gasped and kissed me back.  
  
After what might have been an eternity, or possibly a good ten to fifteen seconds, he pulled back, his lips cherry red and swollen, gasping for air. He was shaking and I realized I was still holding his disgusting shirt in a death grip. I let go and sat back, mind numbing from the gravity of what had just gone on.  
  
When he spoke, it was in a low, gravelly voice, almost a rasp from non-use. "I ... you - we just ... why?"  
  
I drew in a shaky breath and shrugged. "D-did you mind?"  
  
That's when it happened. Two spots of color appeared high in his cheeks and his eyes shone a brighter green than they had since our sixth year. He shook his head and his lips curved into an awkward smile, as though they'd almost forgotten how to do it. "No." And he leaned in and kissed me again.  
  
So like I said, that was the night I lost my mind. And I'm glad I did. Because Harry Potter needed saving from himself, and who better to rescue him than Ron Weasley? I might have lost my mind that night, but what I found instead was my best friend.


End file.
